


(your love was) handmade for somebody like me

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Minor Skye | Daisy Johnson/Grant Ward, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 18:28:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15394803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: Grant's missing something.





	(your love was) handmade for somebody like me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Ed Sheeran's "Shape of You."

Grant freezes. A question— _did something happen—_ dies on his tongue when his eyes fall to her hand. There’s a splinter bomb there, primed and ready to kill the next living thing it comes in contact with. Only there’s no enemy in sight, just the two of them.

He catches the mix of shame and determination on her face before Bakshi knocks her nearly off her feet. Grant watches the struggle between them, torn between ordering Bakshi to back off and simple gratitude he got in the way. Despite that, a strange pride swells in Grant’s chest when she manages to knock the larger man down. And that must be why, when Bakshi surges to his feet with a scalpel in hand, Grant moves automatically for his sidearm to stop him.

He shouldn’t have bothered. The bomb’s doing its work, tearing Bakshi apart and leaving nothing but a wave of dust that drifts to the storage room floor.

That brings reality flooding back in. As impressed as Grant might be with her skills, she was going to kill him. He keeps the gun up.

“What the hell?” he demands.

She rests her weight against the shelves. “You saw. He attacked me.”

“Because _you_ were about to attack _me_.” He’s moved closer without realizing it. Considering the show she just put on, he should maybe worry that she could disarm him at this range and thinks about pulling back.

“You’re a traitor.” The words are a slap in the face. He should let them push him back, feign hurt to put some distance between them. Should. Doesn’t.

He makes some response, some half-hearted reminder that they’re on the same side here, but his mind’s not in it. He’s looking at her lips, thinking how he wants to kiss her, _has_ wanted to almost since he saw her giving Kara that physical back in the base, he realizes. And isn’t that just the dumbest thing in the world right now?

Doesn’t stop him leaning in though.

 

 

+++++

 

 

Kara’s hand is firm against his chest. She looks up at him through dark lashes. This close the scar is almost pretty, the way the colors shift and mingle. It’s like looking at the brush strokes in a painting and he can imagine they make a coherent whole instead of the gnarled mess she’s stuck with.

“I can feel my soulmate,” she says.

His weight carries him back. His feet don’t move because that’d be a retreat, but now there’s some breathing room between them. It makes the chasm in his chest feel all the wider—or maybe that’s her words.

“Oh,” he says. Because what the hell else is he supposed to say?

She smiles like a schoolgirl and turns away. “They’re-” She stops and he can see her frown in the glass of one of the prints on the wall. “He. _He’s_ out there somewhere.” She spins, dropping to the edge of the bed while she does it. “And I know the odds of me finding him are slim—especially given…” She gestures to her face. “But Hydra stole him from me just like everything else and I want him back.”

“Yeah, that’s- That makes sense.”

The pity in her eyes tells him it was the wrong thing to say. “Sorry. I know it’s a touchy subject.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. Classic defensive move. He’s acting like a rookie here—not exactly news, he’s been off his game ever since he escaped SHIELD, but that doesn’t mean he hates it any less.

“Why would it be a ‘touchy subject’?” he asks, trying and failing to keep some bite out of the words.

If she’s fazed by it, she doesn’t let it show. “Because of Skye. Because she doesn’t-” Her eyes drop to his side, to the scars they both know are there. She never finishes the sentence but she might as well have.

“Skye’s not my soulmate,” he says.

Kara’s eyes go wide. “Oh. I thought- I mean, Raina said-”

“Raina’s full of shit.” He starts cleaning up the stray pages from Kara’s file strewn across the table. It makes it easier to focus. “Skye and I kissed but there wasn’t any connection.”

Technically there _was_. It was a damn good kiss and he spent a whole lot of his first few weeks in that hole in the ground reliving it. But there was nothing deeper, no soulbond settling in.

Despite what Hollywood would have people believe, it’s not a one-to-one match. Any one person on the planet could have dozens of possible soulmates out there, it’s just a matter of finding someone who meshes well with you and laying one on ’em. And Grant was so _sure_ Skye would be perfect for him. They have so much in common—shit families, father figures who saved them from themselves—but there was nothing.

“Maybe we can find yours then,” Kara says. She stands from the bed and comes over to take his hands. “Once Bakshi’s good to travel, we can look for my soulmate and maybe we’ll find yours on the way. We could even start tonight! It’s not like he’s going anywhere and there’s a bar right down the street.”

He shakes her off. “I’m not really into the whole hook-up scene.”

“Afraid of an assassin in your bed?” she teases. “It doesn’t have to go that far though. There’s plenty of drunks in bars just hunting for that right kiss.”

“No, I-” He fumbles, unsure how to put into words what he’s feeling. He wants a soulmate— _bad_ , more than he ever has in his life—but somehow trolling bars and kissing strangers feels wrong, disrespectful even. He doesn’t know how to say that without getting another of those pitying looks of hers (so far, Grant isn’t any more a fan of her real face than he was of May’s) so he tells her about Lorelei. As expected she backs off, even gives him space to lick his wounds in private with some excuse about checking on Bakshi.

He falls into one of the chairs at the table, feeling as empty inside as the room around him. He just wishes it were for the reasons Kara thinks, then at least he’d know what’s wrong with him.

 

 

+++++

 

 

He’s not in love with Skye. That thought’s been bouncing around his brain for the better part of an hour, ever since Raina told Whitehall she’d been his goal all along. It's been distracting him from more important things like Whitehall’s shark smile and the rope around his wrists and the threat of Skye’s unhinged dad.

Luckily Cal is more interested in revenge than wanton destruction and, once the guards are out of the way, it’s easy to undo the knots.

“Quit struggling,” he snaps when Skye tries to get away from him. “You’re only making it worse.” He’s glad he grabbed a knife from one of Cal’s victims on his way over; she’s got the ropes so tight they’re never coming undone.

It’s weird. He spent so long wanting her, convinced she was as close to a soulmate as he’d ever get, that he missed it when he stopped loving her.

Turns out absence really _doesn’t_ make the heart grow fonder. Who knew?

He still cares about her though and still wants her—her friendship, her forgiveness—so he doesn’t hesitate to toss her a gun, also taken from one of the unlucky guards.

“Check the mag,” he says while he checks the hall. “There’s no telling how many we’ll have to go through before we get to the city and find-”

Later, he won’t remember what he thought was so important in the city they should go there instead of running. Every thought flies right out of his head with the impact of the first bullet. After that it’s just shock and confusion and a whole hell of a lot of pain.

Skye steps over him, delivering a snarky line he’d be impressed by if he weren’t on the receiving end. All he can think is how good it is he’s not in love with her anymore.

 

 

+++++

 

 

Grant’s not scared while they march him out of the base; this is his best shot at freedom since May got that lucky blow in at Cybertek and Coulson’s handing it to him on a silver platter, he couldn’t be happier. All the same, his whole chest relaxes like a weight’s been lifted when he spots Skye standing next to Simmons down the hall. Both girls look ready to tear him a new one but that can’t stop the swell of almost childish glee he feels.

He almost can’t speak for the way it fills up his lungs. It can’t take more than five steps between seeing them and drawing level with them and in all that time he only manages a single syllable. Then Simmons is stepping forward.

“If I ever see you again,” she says in a tone that demands his full attention, “I’ll kill you.”

His next step scrapes against the concrete floor. He can’t help it. The threat is … surprisingly hot.

It echoes in his head long after they lower the bag over his head and load him into the van. They make it all the way to the transfer before he realizes he was so busy with the sudden spike of lust that he missed his last chance to see Skye.

 

+++++

 

 

It’s not Skye sitting on the other side of the barrier. Grant knew that though.

“Congratulations,” Coulson says, “you’re alive.”

Grant uses the excuse of examining his bandaged arm to hide his confusion. Not that he’s alive—Coulson’s such a bleeding heart he’d never let Grant off himself and, besides that, he’s the best source of intel SHIELD has right now—but he’s having some trouble with his own senses right now. He knew it wasn’t Skye waiting out there, but Coulson’s not right either. It was someone else…

He gives himself a firm mental slap. Obviously it _wasn’t_ anyone else since Coulson is _right there_. Grant’s just out of it from the drugs. He’s got half-memories of drifting in and out on a cloud of painkillers. It must be thirty-six hours now since he cut himself open and he'll be reeling for at least another twenty-four until the drugs are fully out of his system; he’s never handled them too well.

“Thanks,” he says, keeping his voice soft and meek. His play here is broken—not hard given how hollow he feels, like skin and bones with all the juicy bits scooped out—and he’s gotta keep it up or everything he just put himself through is for nothing. “For the rescue.” He keeps his smile thin and strained. “You’re always doing that, saving broken people from themselves.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Coulson says. “You’re here because you’re useful, otherwise I would’ve ordered Simmons to let you bleed out.”

Grant ducks his head again, this time to hide a smile. If that’s what helps Coulson sleep at night, let him believe it for now. Grant hunches his shoulders, takes a couple shaky breaths, digs a thumb into his sutured wrist until it brings tears to his eyes.

“I get it,” he says thickly, lifting his head again. Coulson’s too much of a pro to show any outward reaction, but Grant knows him well enough to know the picture he’s painted is having an impact. “And you’re right. I’m not worth saving.”

“Does that mean you’re willing to talk?” The hope in Coulson’s voice is adorable.

Grant turns, drawing his legs back onto the bed and falling on his good side so he can cradle his injured arm to his chest. “Tomorrow,” he says, his thin promise bouncing off the wall. Coulson’s sharp intake of breath makes him smile. “I’ll tell Skye everything she wants to know tomorrow.”

The heavy stomp of Coulson’s feet on the stairs is almost worth all the pain, but once they fade Grant’s still left alone in this cell with that strange emptiness wrapped around his bones. He really hopes this play works; he doesn’t wanna feel this again if he has to.

 

 

+++++

 

 

He’s been feeling that emptiness every day since. Months and months and it only went away twice. Once, when he saw Skye on his walk of shame through the base. And again just a few hours ago when he saw Kara safe and sound in the lab.

His free hand comes up, cups Simmons’ cheek. The bitter hatred she’s wearing cracks. For a second, just the space between two breaths, he can see longing as deep as his own emptiness in her eyes.

There’s only one common thread between those two moments. It’s almost too ridiculous to think. Crazy. As insane as he was pretending to be when he slit his own wrists.

“You kissed me,” he says.

“No.” She’s a better liar than she ever was on the Bus, but the denial’s too fast, too ready.

He draws his fingers through her hair, torn half-free of its tie in her fight with Bakshi. “I lost too much blood,” he guesses. “Stopped breathing. You gave me mouth-to-mouth.”

She saved his life and sparked the bond between them at the same time. He almost hates her for that. Not the saving him or even the keeping it from him—not that he’s enjoyed the last few months of living with a half-assed bond—but that she was awake and aware when the connection formed. She knows what it felt like, that moment when their souls aligned, and he was too busy being half-dead to even notice.

It’s not fair.

He kisses her. Swoops right in and does it before she can argue—and considering that she kissed him without permission first, he figures he’s owed this one.

It’s a terrible kiss. Their tac vests are hard planes between them and his gun is still up, digging into her side and besides all that they just don’t mesh neatly. Their noses get crushed and their teeth clash (even odds whether she’s doing that last part on purpose) and the angle’s all wrong.

But it’s also an amazing kiss. He feels swept away like he was the first time he touched a girl. All it takes is a few seconds and he’s panting against her, forehead pressed to hers while they both try to catch their breath.

“Damn,” he says.

“Quite,” she agrees. And that’s just so _Jemma—_ and Jemma’s his fucking _soulmate_ —that he’s gotta kiss her again.

They do better this time. The noses stay out of the way and the pressure’s right. They do even better the third and fourth times when he manuevers them to a stray table. The gun clatters loudly against the metal top but it’s Jemma’s surprised squeal when he lifts her up that shoots right through him. With each kiss the bond deepens, the emptiness narrows out, Grant becomes whole again for the first time ever.

He’s so high on it, that’s gotta be why it takes the barrel of a gun pressing against his temple for him to realize something’s wrong.

He freezes, one hand on Jemma’s soft skin beneath her shirt, the other twisted in the strap of her tac vest, trying to pull it off her shoulder. If the gun was gonna put a damper on his lust, the innocent expression she wears certainly doesn’t.

“Bitch,” he says fondly.

“I imagine that’s what you deserve, don’t you?”

Reluctantly—oh, so reluctantly—he takes his hands off her and lifts them to his sides while he backs up. The gun stays trained on him all the time.

“You gonna shoot me?” He’s still close enough to stop her if she goes for it, but he figures putting words to what she’s doing will help too. “Your soul-”

“ _Don’t_ ,” she snaps. “Say it.” She’s refastening her vest and he tries not to groan at the thought of all that skin now out of reach. “You’re a monster and a traitor and sooner or later you’re going to turn on the team again.”

“Jemma,” he tries, placating.

“Don’t try to deny it,” she says, almost kindly. “It’s just your nature. You’ll leave because you can’t face your crimes and along the way you’ll hurt the team the way you did before— _worse_ , even—and I won’t let that happen.”

He smiles and that alone throws her, but she’s right. His play here was sure to ruffle a few feathers even after Gonzales’ people kicked Coulson out of his own base.

“You know,” he says, “there are other ways to stop me hurting the team. I can think of one very specific thing that’d keep me from ever even _thinking_ of betraying SHIELD again.”

Her blush is just too damn appealing for him to relieve her of her misconceptions. Sure, sex would be nice, but he can get that anywhere. He’s only ever found the one soulmate.

“Simmons?” Coulson’s voice is sharp enough to cut the tension between them. “Everything okay here?” His gun is out, aimed at the floor. The floor near _Grant’s_ feet of course.

“Fine,” she says, sliding off the table. “Ward and I were just discussing strategy.”

“Well the mission’s accomplished so there’s no need for that. Lincoln and Mike are ready to be loaded onto the Bus, we just need all hands for an escort. Let’s go. Ward?” He asks it almost like he’s expecting an argument.

Grant smiles, his eyes on Jemma. “Whatever you say, boss.” He lifts a hand, palm up, blocking her path. When she sets his gun delicately in it, he closes his fingers around hers. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She snatches her hand back and moves to Coulson, who waits for Grant to lead the way. He’s willing to trust him to help with this mission, but after what he just walked in on, he’s gotta be wondering if that was a mistake.

Fine with Grant, he’ll be the model agent—well, model reformed agent—from here on out. It’s not like he’ll have to fear brainwashing; once Coulson finds out about the bond, no way he’ll risk Jemma’s health just to hurt Grant. Kara’ll be disappointed, sure, but they’ll find another way to hurt Morse. In fact, that might even be better. Forcing her to apologize to Kara would’ve been satisfying, but exposing her crimes to her friends? That’s gonna sting.

So Grant’s looking at revenge, undermining Coulson, _and_ keeping his soulmate. Does life get better?

 

 

+++++

 

 

(It does, as it turns out. Kara’s confusion when Grant shows up back at base turns to jumping excitement when she hears the news. The looks on the team’s faces when she blurts it loud enough for everyone to hear is only slightly less enjoyable than Jemma’s face when Kara practically leaps away from Grant to wrap her in a hug.)

 


End file.
